


Flowers for Jon

by sofithethird



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Coma, Fluff and Angst, Hospitals, M/M, im sad about the finale tbh, martin is sad, post 120
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 04:00:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16110359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sofithethird/pseuds/sofithethird
Summary: Martin goes to visit Jon in the hospital





	Flowers for Jon

Martin walks in the cold breath of the morning, the chilled air grasping at him through his coat and scarf. He knows his destination in his mind but not in his feet. The grey, cool sky and the still air do nothing to reflect the burning that he feels deep within his chest, a writhing mass of worry, grief, anger, and bitter desperation to change things that he knows he cannot change.  
When he closes his eyes for too long, he can see them, and he feels his heart in his shoes. In his right hands, he carries a small bouquet of flowers. 

It is still early and there aren’t many others on the street. He allows himself to wander as if in a trance, crossing roads and never stopping, walking without any specific thoughts in his mind, only the terrible burden of the heat of emotion carried inside. He does not want to think about Elias being dragged from the room, or of Peter Lukas settling into his new duties at the institute. He does not want to think about Melanie or Basira on their own leave, trying to recover on their own...  
He can barely bring himself to think of those that they have lost, and who they may still have to lose. 

Martin does not recognize the streets he is walking down now but doesn’t care. He wants to get lost here in this maze of pavement and metal, get lost and never find his way back... 

And all at once, he has reached his destination. When he stands and looks up at the hospital before him, he can’t help but feel so small and powerless, so insignificant.  
His hands clench tightly around the flowers in his hand, and he steps inside.

One of the nurses, the woman he had spoken to on his first visit, recognizes him. She is happy enough to give up a room number and point him to the elevators. She has a sad smile when she is speaking to him, and Martin knows they are both thinking about the hopelessness of the situation. He thanks her and makes his way upstairs. 

Martin finds himself suddenly focused, as if snapped from his trance. He is painfully aware of the sound of his footfalls on the tile hallway that leave a muffled echo, the quiet sound of his breathing so magnified in his own ears. He comes to the door. Deep breath. And he opens it.

They’ve been keeping Jon here, in this small hospital room, under careful observation. Martin steps inside, always overwhelmed by the machinery and beeps of monitors, imposing and sterile, framing the still form upon the bed before him.

Martin approaches carefully, as if Jon was only asleep and he was afraid to wake him. The archivist is pale and still, the only movements from the artificial breath and heartbeat rendered by machine. Martin knows that this body is dead, but his mind is still alive, still thinking. He wonders, for just a second, if Jon ever thinks about him...

Martin touches Jon’s arm carefully, just with his fingertips. His skin is cold and lifeless, but Martin can almost just imagine him sitting up right here, alive and well. He long so deeply to speak with him again, so desperately needing just one more second with him, to tell him, “how could I ever have let you go?”  
Jon does not respond, even when Martin weeps softly and takes his hand. The archivist has surprisingly delicate fingers, clutched in Martin’s much warmer hands. Martin wills Jon to feel him there, to know that he is with him, and will watch over him. He is not the malevolent, unfeeling gaze of the eye, but a soft, watchful caretaker.  
He thinks of the nightmares that rage within Jon’s mind, how cruel that in this state he must live with the terror.  
Martin leans close, whispers, “I’m not giving up on you”.  
Not now. Not ever.  
When Martin finally stands up to go, he is wiping the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to pull himself together. He leaves the flowers behind on the table beside his beloved archivist. If he does wake up, Martin thinks, there will be something special here in this impersonal room.  
He will return the next day and in many of the days that follow. He knows that in this cold, uncaring world, this is something that he can do.  
He looks back at those flowers, trying to stop more tears from welling in his eyes. Before he goes he whispers, “Hang on Jon. Hang on”.


End file.
